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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27024244">fools and the lovesick are never cured</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fantasizing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, barnabas is just in love, jonah magnus is a smug little bastard, jonathan fanshawe is awfully long-suffering, something very silly and very filthy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 16:41:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,378</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27024244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The thing is - and Barnabas will maintain this to his very grave - that it’s all Jonah’s fault. </em>
</p>
<p>****</p>
<p>something very silly and very fluffy for a friend's birthday; Barnabas lets his imagination run away with him, with unexpected consequences</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Barnabas Bennett/Jonathan Fanshawe, Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous, Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>fools and the lovesick are never cured</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dundee, happy birthday, I adore you &lt;3 <br/>Thanks to the Jonah server as ever for being massive enablers</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The thing is - and Barnabas will maintain this to his very grave - that it’s all Jonah’s fault. </p>
<p>Which doesn’t, granted, narrow down the field much, since most things that happen in Barnabas’ life tend to be (by hook or by crook) Jonah’s fault, being as Jonah is the man with the single largest influence on his heart and his mind. And his time, for that matter. What use the cost of a secretary when he has Jonah telling him what’s on at the opera, or dragging him to Covent Garden, or the latest exhibition, or up the river to some fancy party that Lord Whateverhisname is having in the grounds of Hampton Court-</p>
<p>The <em>point</em> is - when it comes down to it - that even if Barnabas were inclined to believe in the Fates, unless he knew that they were in the habit of running their ideas past Jonah first (and perhaps they do, who knows what mysteries lie in the pile of letters on Jonah’s desk?), he’d be hard-pressed to believe that they make any real difference. To his life, at least. </p>
<p>As it happens, this afternoon is one of the few snatches of time that he spends out in the world at large where he isn’t at Jonah’s side. Going to the doctor always makes him think of being a child, sugar lumps and needles, being told he’d been a good, brave boy when he hadn’t the faintest clue what it was he was supposed to have been brave about (and feeling all the worse for it). What a joy, then, to know a good doctor into whose hands he would most readily place his life if asked, and not even for the price of a sugar lump. Even so, sitting in the waiting room Barnabas can’t help but feel a little childish, fidgeting in place and listening to the <em>tick tick tick</em> of the grandfather clock. </p>
<p>Ten minutes past the hour, and his appointment is at quarter past, and Jonathan Fanshawe is a fastidiously punctual man so Barnabas expects him at any moment. </p>
<p>Except - and here’s the rub - he happens to be only too aware of which patient is currently monopolising the good doctor’s time. Not because he’s snuck a look at the register or peered in at the window, Heaven forbid. Only because every so often, faintly through the closed door of Jonathan’s little office, there are noises. </p>
<p>They’re not especially exceptional noises. Little gasps, soft hums, the sort of thing that might come about in any examination. Perfectly natural. It’s just that Barnabas would know those little gasps anywhere, could pick out the sound of Jonah muffling his pleasure in amongst the swell of a full concerto (and, the orchestra being what it is, and Barnabas not being a man especially minded towards paying close attention to music when he has something better to do, he will, and he <em>has</em>). </p>
<p>Which is to say that Barnabas is all too keenly aware that behind the closed door of Jonathan’s office, Jonah is spread across a table, or perhaps a desk, or perhaps seated in a chair, being given most assiduous attention by the most dedicated doctor in London. And that knowledge really is the sort of thing that can make a man antsy, even in a room in which anybody could walk in off the street. Particularly when he knows that in four minutes and twenty-three seconds, Jonah will saunter out of that room with flushed cheeks and an expression like the cat that got the entire damn aviary, and he’ll take one look at him and <em>know</em>. </p>
<p>Jonah always knows. And, Jonah being Jonah, he’ll give him one of those long, searching looks, and then a smirk like the devil himself, and then - the bastard - he’ll do <em>absolutely nothing about it</em> except to make veiled remarks at Robert’s next dinner party about how Barnabas does so <em>love</em> visiting the doctor, as if he has any room to talk. Hypocrite. Barnabas would berate him soundly for it were it not for how unfortunately committed he is to chasing after soft words and affection from the man. </p>
<p>Right now, though, soft words are the last thing on his mind. No, right now he’s thinking about Jonah’s head thrown back and his lips parted, about Jonathan’s stern eyes and steady hands, about the two of them, about what they might think of him sitting here, squirming, hot-cheeked and tight-trousered and altogether quite indecent. </p>
<p><em>Why, Barnabas-</em> that would be Jonah, of course, all teasing, lilting, a voice that begs to be stopped up with a hand or  a gag or whatever else comes within easy reach - <em>I had no idea you were in such urgent need of care. Doctor, can we do anything for him? </em></p>
<p><em>I don’t rightly know</em> - Jonathan, better at affecting severity and solemness, a cool tone that makes Barnabas’ breath hitch even just imagining it - <em>but I suppose I’d better try, hadn’t I? If he can’t conduct himself appropriately then it falls to us to help him towards decency. </em></p>
<p>Oh, and Barnabas wants to cringe at the thought of being spoken about like he isn’t there, itching with embarrassment that - curiously - does precisely nothing to calm the tightness in his stomach, the dryness in his mouth. </p>
<p>And then what? Perhaps Jonathan would have him strip, exposed and bared to the cool air for his examination, clinical and calm, tutting over the obvious evidence of his arousal. <em>Well, if you lack the self-control to make yourself decent, you’d better bend over. </em></p>
<p>And he would, of course, not least because it would let him hide his face from the sternness on Jonathan’s face, the disapproval that only seems to make him more excitable. He’d bury his face in his folded arms and listen to the sound of Jonathan going for oil, for whatever other tools at his disposal and then- oh, Jonah would keep up some hideous, wonderful commentary throughout, stroke his hair, pull it- </p>
<p>His trousers are <em>decidedly</em> constricting now. Barnabas’ hand twitches towards his groin and he stills it with a monumental effort, looking frantically towards the clock - three minutes and forty-eight seconds - and the surgery door, still closed, no sounds outside from the street, another plaintive little whine from Jonathan’s office (Jonah’s, from between clenched teeth), <em>Christ</em>- </p>
<p>Is Jonah taking equally good care of Jonathan in there? Likely not - Jonathan has odd ideas about professionalism, and is often disinclined to be done unto during office hours, though apparently he has no such compunctions about acting on Jonah. Not that Barnabas can blame him, since Jonah is so difficult to deny when he makes himself teasing or affectionate, soft or mischievous. Still, Barnabas wonders if Jonathan is quite as eager as he is at this moment, perhaps just waiting for the moment where Jonah leaves and he can grant himself a little relief, put aside the apron and his trousers and slip a hand past his waist and- and- </p>
<p>No, back to the first idea, else Barnabas thinks he really will lose all of his control, back to where he was- oh, yes, bent over with Jonathan behind him, setting one firm hand at the small of his back to keep him steady while he presses one, two oiled fingers into him with gloved hands, still quite dispassionate as he crooks them to make him gasp and then <em>keeps them there</em>, rubbing firmly at that one particular spot that had been a curious mystery to Barnabas until someone had seen fit to illuminate him over the course of a long evening - who had that been? Mordechai? Jonah? At any rate it isn’t a mystery now, but he isn’t quite so <em>au fait</em> with the sensation that the thought of Jonathan bearing down with his fingers and massaging him there doesn’t make him a little weak at the knees, a little hot under the collar-</p>
<p><em>Ah, ah - be still</em>. That would be snapped out when Barnabas started to rub against the table, and he would, he’s sure, because he’s only human even if he does try to do as he’s told, and the reproof would make him shudder all over but obey, trying to keep himself still for as long as Jonathan sees fit to stretch him, to torment him-</p>
<p>Jonathan has precedent in this area, is the thing. He’s put his fingers inside Barnabas and kept up some half-joking little lecture about imbalanced humours while he milked him dry without ever once letting him come to a peak, leaving him writhing and begging himself hoarse only to win himself a sharp smack on the thigh for his trouble (not that that’s any real deterrent). </p>
<p>Still, just because something is familiar doesn’t mean that it is easy, even less so with Jonah watching, Jonah’s heated eyes upon him, Jonathan telling him to <em>behave himself</em> to <em>be good</em>, as if Barnabas could be anything else when Jonathan asks something of him, as if he wouldn’t hold himself still against the desk for hours if it pleased Jonathan to rob him of all his senses one by one until all he could do is sob and close his eyes tight against the sting of tears and whisper <em>please, Jonathan, please - oh, Jonathan- Jonathan- </em></p>
<p>“I think that’s Doctor Fanshawe, to you.” </p>
<p>Jonah’s voice, as coolly amused and salacious as Barnabas had imagined, still with a hint of breathiness though he hardly has a hair out of place. Barnabas realises to his horror that he’s been gasping out loud, the heel of his hand pressed between his legs, and Jonathan and Jonah watching him from the office door. </p>
<p>“I-I-” he stammers, mortified beyond words, and Jonah grins so wide it seems for a moment that his smile will split and he’ll swallow them all up, and wouldn’t that just be a <em>relief, </em>since the floor doesn’t seem inclined to open beneath him and do the same? </p>
<p>“Oh, I think I’d better leave you two to it,” Jonah all but purrs. “Clearly you’re in need of some attention, Barnabas. I’ll try not to be too offended that I’m not always foremost on your mind.” Before Barnabas can protest - though he hardly knows how to begin - Jonah gives him a salacious little grin and saunters past him to leave, eyes glittering with intent that has Barnabas’ heart sinking, knowing he won’t hear the end of this for weeks on end-</p>
<p>But that hardly matters. The door closes, and it’s just himself and Jonathan left. Barnabas swallows thickly, his cheeks flaming, and averts his gaze to his hands - which is a mistake, because all that that does is allow him to see his straining trousers and the very obvious evidence of his indiscretion. </p>
<p>“Forgive me,” he whispers. “I oughtn’t- I-I- I’m sorry, I-”</p>
<p>“I think that’s enough of that,” Jonathan cuts him off steadily, one eyebrow raised over his spectacles when Barnabas chances a look at him. “You’d better come in, Mr Bennett.” </p>
<p>He does, of course, though hardly gracefully, a bow-legged wobble into Jonathan’s office, and then the sound of the door closing behind him, and Barnabas stands awkwardly at the centre of the room, trousers tented and hands clenched. </p>
<p>Jonathan sits down as if this were any other appointment, waving him into a seat (he takes it with no small amount of relief, crossing one leg over the other as if that will make any earthly difference at this point) and sucking his teeth thoughtfully. </p>
<p>“What were you thinking about?” </p>
<p>“I- I beg your pardon?” </p>
<p>“Well, I assume there was something on your mind to conjure such excitement,” Jonathan replies calmly. “Or are you prone to such, ah- episodes in the normal course of the day? Most men of your age are past such things, mind, but-”</p>
<p>“No! No.” God. Barnabas wants to bury his face in his hands. Actually what he <em>wants </em>to do is bury his face in Jonathan’s lap but voicing that is likely to get him nothing but another stern look, which is unfortunate, since if Jonathan keeps looking at him like that he’s in very real danger of causing even more of a mess. “I was, um- I was thinking about- w-well, I could hear Jonah past the-”</p>
<p>Realisation dawns on Jonathan’s face and just for a moment there’s a flick of warm amusement in his eyes before his expression shutters stern again and he sighs. “Oh, dear. Listening at doors, were you?” Before Barnabas can protest that allegation Jonathan gets to his feet, sighing. “Well, you’d better undress.” </p>
<p>“I beg your pardon?” </p>
<p>This part, granted, <em>isn’t</em> Jonah’s fault. <em>Asking for clarification</em>, as if Barnabas needs it, as if he isn’t as profoundly grateful as he is utterly humiliated by the prospect of undressing for Jonathan’s attentions - later, he’ll look back at this and want to bang his head against the wall. For now, though, all he has to do is obey. </p>
<p>Layer by layer, off the clothes come. Who was it that decided a man ought to wear so many layers, with so many buttons and fastenings for his fingers to fumble over while Jonathan watches him, unmoving, unspeaking, giving him that same cool glare over his glasses, <em>Christ</em> - when Barnabas finally frees himself from the constriction of his trousers he half-expects the buttons of his undergarments to ping merrily across the room with them. Finally he’s undressed, bared to Jonathan’s eyes, sucking in a sharp breath when Jonathan steps closer to him. </p>
<p>He’s half a head shorter than Barnabas, is Doctor Fanshawe, but at this moment he might as well be twelve feet tall for the authority he’s exerting upon him, the way he twitches his fingers in clear instruction, the way Barnabas crashes to his knees like a puppet with its strings cut. </p>
<p>“Tell me what else you were thinking about,” Jonathan instructs, and on his knees like this Barnabas could lean forward, could lean his cheek against his thigh, except he’s distracted by the way that Jonathan is extending one careful foot to nudge his hand between his thighs in clear instruction-</p>
<p>And, well. If that’s what he wants, who is Barnabas to deny him? Who is Barnabas to deny him anything? The feeling of his palm wrapped tightly around himself is pure, sweet relief, and his head falls back, eyes falling closed-</p>
<p>“Ah- no, Barnabas. Look at me.” His eyes open as if lifted by wires - what deity gifted Jonathan Fanshawe control of the strings that guide him? - and he stares up at him, biting his lower lip to muffle sounds lest the next unfortunate patient in the waiting room go through the same thing, some vicious, prurient cycle- God, he’s getting hysterical. “Tell me what you were thinking about.” </p>
<p>So he does. Inelegantly, mind, and with blasphemy and profanity slipping between every other word as his hand slips over his length and Jonathan watches him. Perhaps it’s just that Barnabas feels he knows him rather well these days but the more he studies his face, the more he’s sure that what he can see there is more fondness than it is sternness, though every few minutes Jonathan remembers himself and replaces his severe expression. And his voice is certainly grave enough, cool as he directs him - <em>slower, you haven’t told me enough yet- yes, like that- good- </em>and it’s the easiest thing in the world to do as he’s told. </p>
<p>Easier than thinking for himself, certainly, since look at the mess that his own brain has got him into today. Easier simply to hand his free will over to Jonathan Fanshawe, who seems to have all sorts of ideas about what he wants to do with it. Easier to surrender and just focus on breathing, and know that Jonathan will take care of the rest. </p>
<p>And by the time a few more minutes have passed, what else is there? Just Jonathan’s eyes on him, and his voice, and Barnabas couldn’t summon rebellion or independent thought if he wanted to - when Jonathan says, “alright, that’s enough”, Barnabas removes his hand before his mind has even processed the thought, before he even has the wherewithal to be disappointed or indignant about it. </p>
<p>“Up you get.” There’s that softness again, and steady hands against his shoulders when he struggles to stand with weak and wobbling knees, Jonathan guiding him over to the little surgical table and having him sit, reaching for oil - Christ - and pouring some over his palm before taking him in hand, easy as you like. </p>
<p>“Oh- <em>please</em>-” Barnabas whispers, daring to tilt his head forwards to rest against Jonathan’s shoulder, rewarded with the doctor’s dry hand against his hair, a soft chuckle in his ear. </p>
<p>“Shh. I’ll look after you. All this over the caterwauling Jonah was doing?” he murmurs, tender as anything, and Barnabas stifles a laugh, stifles a moan. </p>
<p>“Not just that, I- I was-”</p>
<p>“I know. You were imagining what sort of awful things I might do to you.” He can feel Jonathan’s smile against his temple, the fond kiss he presses there. “Well, I yet might. But luckily for you, Mr Bennett, I have a full book of patients and only ten minutes in which to cure you.” </p>
<p>Thank God and all his angels that Doctor Fanshawe is a punctual man. Even so, he has Barnabas begging for at least five minutes more before he grants him relief. </p>
<p>“I think-” Barnabas pants, falling back against the table with his eyes closed, “that if this is the cure, I ought to see about getting sick more frequently.” </p>
<p>“Don’t you dare,” Jonathan snorts, already a flurry of movement, cleaning his hands in the basin and shooting him an amused look. “Oh, dear. Have I incapacitated you?” </p>
<p>“Something like that,” Barnabas mumbles, and there’s a moment of genuine concern in Jonathan’s face. </p>
<p>“You’re not ill, are you? I was given to understand that this was just a check-up but if you’re unwell-”</p>
<p>Barnabas laughs breathlessly, grinning at Jonathan from his recumbent position on the table. “If I say I’m unwell, am I in store for a repeat treatment?” </p>
<p>“Not before my office hours are over, I’m afraid.” Still, Jonathan comes over to feel his forehead for fever regardless, and presses a kiss to his lips when he deems him well enough. Barnabas still feels jelly-legged, not quite at peace with the prospect of going out into the cold and facing Jonah’s teasing and the pressures of modern life when he has such a sanctuary here- it’s so quiet here, and Jonathan’s hand feels so nice stroking his hair. Barnabas thinks he could stay here quite happily, kneeling under Jonathan’s desk. Not even for any lascivious purpose, necessarily (though he certainly wouldn’t complain about being put to good use), just for the joy of being close to him, of resting his head in his lap and closing his eyes and drifting a while. </p>
<p>“-nabas?” </p>
<p>Barnabas snaps back to the present with a flush of embarrassment and Jonathan smiles down at him, fond and exasperated. </p>
<p>“I see you’re still a little touched by whatever curious ailment had you so eager in the waiting room,” he says dryly. </p>
<p>“I shouldn’t doubt that it’s without a cure,” Barnabas agrees, and Jonathan snorts. </p>
<p>“Oh, doubtless, but all we can do is try. Come on, poppet.” </p>
<p>Oh, and that’s worth any humiliation, any ordeal. Barnabas feels himself flush scarlet again as he lets Jonathan guide him to stand, startling him by placing his clothes in his arms rather than having him re-dress. </p>
<p>“Go upstairs,” Jonathan instructs gently. “There’s a bed up there. I’ve a couple of hours of appointments left, and I’ll come and check on you when I’m able.” </p>
<p>Never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth Barnabas dissolves into the space between atoms, hastening up the stairs for the pleasure of tangling himself in Jonathan’s sheets, the certainty of further soft words and touches in the gaps between appointments. And after that perhaps, an evening, a whole evening in which to enjoy affection and torment and whatever else the good doctor sees fit to provide him - </p>
<p>And it <em>is</em> Jonah’s fault. It is, and Barnabas will have to think up some manner of vengeance. But perhaps he’ll thank him for it, too. </p>
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